


This Mortal Coil

by BowCaster



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Mortality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-29 23:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12641304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BowCaster/pseuds/BowCaster
Summary: Crowley cannot be forgiven, but he can be offered a clean slate, if he chooses to become mortal.But with his soul subject to the same conditions as other mortals', can Crowley's plan to get back into Heaven really work?





	1. Chapter 1

It could have been any other visit to Adam’s.

Except, by the time it was over, it was the last visit to Adam’s. And both Crowley and Aziraphale were changed.

 

*

 

“I can’t do forgiveness,” Adam smiled, handing them both a cup of tea. Recently turned thirty, Adam had been slightly nervous about his approaching thirty-third birthday, and Aziraphale had said they should make the trip to reassure him that they didn’t necessarily think things worked that way. They had ended up being invited in by his wife, and were now sitting awkwardly in the kitchen, the conversation having turned, as it always did after a while, to the failed apocalypse. Which in turn led to a discussion of The Fall, which in turn led to damnation.

“I’m surprised, I must say,” Aziraphale said, adding a third sugar to his cup. “I thought putting things right was rather your style.”

“Well, I do enjoy that,” Adam smiled, glancing at the newspaper clipping on the pin-board. _Nuclear Disarmament Society Visits Number 10_ , read one. _Local Man Awarded Campaign Prize_ read another.

Crowley gave the board a single approving glance. “It’d have to be an angel, I should think.”

“Not me,” Aziraphale. “I know you too well.”

“Which is why I said _an angel_ , and not _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley said. He looked back at Adam. “Sorry. But those are the rules. There’d have to be the confession, and the punishment –”

“Penance,” Aziraphale muttered into his tea.

“- and all the rest of it,” Crowley ignored him. “And you have to mean it. And if downstairs got a whiff that I was going to do it and mean it…” he shuddered, and it wasn’t put on, at all. “To be honest, we shouldn’t even be discussing it with you.”

“They can’t hear you,” Adam said, with the tone of someone who is certain their actions are answerable to no one. “But that’s fair enough. I can’t forgive you, I don’t technically qualify.”

“Are you an angel?” Aziraphale frowned at him.

“No, I’m an antichrist.”

“Yes, but… your father…”

“Is nearly seventy, and visiting his allotment this afternoon,” Adam said, sharply.

Aziraphale smiled, as if it had been a test. Crowley rolled his eyes. He didn’t see the point of that sort of thing.

“Well, so long as we’re clear,” he said, pushing his cup away slightly. “We can move on from discussing me.”

Adam glanced up at him. “Crowley… you know… I could… do something.”

Crowley paused.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked for him.

“I mean, I can’t do the forgiveness thing,” Adam said, “but I… could do something else.” He looked into Crowley’s sunglasses. “I could give you a clean slate in another way. Not as an angel, but… I could make you mortal. If you wanted.”

Crowley stared.

Then.

Burst out laughing, covering his mouth as he all-but snorted at the idea. He looked at Aziraphale, expecting the angel to join in.

But he wasn’t. His cup was frozen halfway to his mouth, and he was staring at Adam in shock. “You can do that?”

“Only for Crowley,” Adam said. “He’s Fallen. I can’t do it for you. But, yes.”

Crowley realised he’d stopped laughing. “You can make me mortal? What would that even involve? I’m quite old, and I don’t think this body would cope with the amount of years it’s due suddenly catching up with it.”

“You’d get a new one,” Adam said. “And your soul would be a clean slate. But,” he raised a finger that might as well have been labelled ‘CAUTION’, “it’d be subject to all the usual caveats of mortal souls.”

“As in…?”

“As in, fuck it up with sin, and you’re going down,” Adam shrugged. “But you’d have the choice. Which is more than some of us have.”

The silence that followed was distinctly uncomfortable. It didn’t matter how many good deeds Adam did, when he died, there was only one destination for him.

Aziraphale often wondered how Adam found it within him to do Good, when it would, quite literally, get him nowhere. Surely if anyone deserved Heaven after that sort of thing hanging over their head, it was Adam Young.

Ineffable, he would have to remind himself.

Crowley steepled his fingers, and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You could do it.”

Adam nodded.

“What would I have to… do?”

Aziraphale gawped. “You’re not seriously considering this, my dear?”

Crowley just looked at him.

Adam cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t need to do anything. Just say the word.” He picked the cups up. “I’ll just be a minute.” He put the cups into the sink, and excused himself into the living room, closing the door behind him.

Aziraphale rounded on Crowley immediately. “My dear, you can’t be serious about this?”

“Why not?” Crowley said. He reached up, and took his sunglasses off. “Wouldn’t you like to see these eyes without the vertical pupils?”

“Stop it,” Aziraphale snapped. “You know full well what mortality entails.”

“But when I die, I don’t have to end up down there,” Crowley said. “Think about it, angel. I could go… upstairs. If I played my cards right.”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened slightly. “That’s… true…”

“And you could help me.”

“I could. I mean, of course I would, my dear, I’d –”

“You could be my guardian angel,” Crowley smiled, slowly. “If you wanted.”

“That’s technically below my responsibilities as a Principality. But I could make an exception.”

Their hands were somehow clasped together.

“You might get sick.”

“You could nurse me.”

“You’d be gone so… _quickly_ , my dear –”

“Only mortally.”

Aziraphale’s face looked pained. “Crowley. You’re asking me to watch you die.”

“I’m asking you to visit me when I get to… go upstairs.”

“Visit?” Aziraphale coughed. “My dear, I’d…” he stopped, and pressed a hand to his mouth as he gathered himself. “It’s… your decision, my dear. Adam has offered. There’s no reason you have to take him up on his offer immediately –”

“And you think they won’t notice downstairs if I start musing about taking the mortality pill?” Crowley pushed his sunglasses back on. “You think I’d be left here to muse to myself?”

Aziraphale dragged his teeth over his lower lip. “So, it’s now or never, as they say?”

“Strike whilst the iron’s hot.”

The angel’s face crumple slightly, and he put a hand to the side of Crowley’s face. “My dear.”

Crowley nodded. And put his hand on top of Aziraphale’s. “I know.”

 

*

 

“Positive?” Adam’s hands hovered above Crowley’s head.

“Give me a run-down of what to expect?”

“You’ll feel a bit ill,” Adam said. “Get Aziraphale to take you home. You won’t be able to drive, and I don’t know how long you could bewitch the Bentley to drive itself. Get to bed, and sleep. When you wake up… it’ll be done.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Crowley shrugged. “I’ve had more difficult hangovers.”

“Wait until you can’t just miracle the damage away from your liver,” Adam smirked. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. Wait –” Crowley took his glasses off, and folded them neatly. Then went to lob them into Adam’s bin.

“I’ll do it,” Aziraphale took them before things could smash.

“Alright,” Crowley arranged his collar. “Want to get a look at the world without the lenses. I’m ready.”

Adam looked at Aziraphale.

Then put his hands on Crowley’s head.

Crowley’s body jolted as though he’d been shocked. His back arched painfully, and he gasped, open eyes flying wide as his mouth dropped open further. His fingers splayed, and he twitched for a moment, before Adam took his hands away, and Crowley caught himself on the chair, breathing heavily.

“Uh,” he put a hand to his head. “Are you sure that’s worked? Aside from the headache, I don’t feel any diff –”

“Crowley, your wings,” Aziraphale said, softly.

“Mm?” Crowley looked over his shoulder. His wings were indeed out, torn through his suit jacket, splayed wide as though reaching, mercifully passing through the kitchen counter and opposite wall, as the space was rather confined. “They’re still…” he frowned. “Shrinking.”

“Shrinking,” Aziraphale nodded. “They’re getting smaller…”

“I can’t winch them in,” Crowley said, getting to his feet, giving his wings a flex. They ached. “They’re just out.”

“Until they vanish,” Aziraphale pressed his lips together.

“You need to get him home,” Adam said. “I think he’ll sleep once his wings are gone.”

Crowley nodded. That made sense. He reached a hand out to Adam. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Adam shook the hand. His skin felt very hot. “If I don’t see you…”

“I’ll see you,” Aziraphale said. “Even if you don’t see us –”

Crowley groaned as his wings throbbed again, shrinking another white feather’s worth.

“Come on, Crowley,” Aziraphale got an arm under his, and for a second Crowley felt the difference in their strengths. Aziraphale was an angel. He was… something else. He let himself be steered to the door, to the Bentley, and be propped into the passenger seat and buckled in. His wings passed through the car, thank goodness, so Aziraphale didn’t hurt him.

He did groan, however, when Aziraphale started the car, and pulled away onto Tadfield’s main road at a generous 25mph.

 

*

 

They went back to the bookshop.

Crowley didn’t remember asking to be taken there, but as Aziraphale dragged him through the front door, his wings now small enough to be measured on an A3 piece of paper, he realised this was where he wanted to be.

“Do you want anything?” the angel fussed. “Food? Drink? Bath?”

“Bed,” Crowley said, realising he was sweating. He loosened his tie, then snapped his fingers, trying to vanish it.

Nothing happened.

“You can’t do that,” Aziraphale chided him. “Let’s get you upstairs…”

Crowley cried out, his knees buckling as his wings shrank again, the largest shrink so far, so they were the span of his forearm. “Aziraphale…”

“Soon be there, my dear…” Aziraphale propelled them both through the door, and sat Crowley on the edge of the bed as he worked off the mortalising-demon’s shoes, his tie, wrestled the jacked over what wings there were left, loosened his shirt buttons…

“S’enough,” Crowley grasped his wrists. He was still sweating, but he also felt cold. “Don’t… don’t go…”

“I’m not going anywhere, my dear,” Aziraphale stood, and kicked off his own shoes, joining Crowley on the bed as they both lay down. They’d done this before, laying down together, and more. But this felt more intimate than being naked, more exposing than making love, more precious than any whispered confession.

Crowley was dying.

And Aziraphale had to stay with him.

He wrapped his arms around Crowley, holding him close, letting him shake and worry and shudder as his wings became those of a cherub – tiny, perfect, a hand’s-span in width… Aziraphale kissed between them, letting his tears touch Crowley’s skin, and noticing they did not burn him.

He was already so changed. And there was more yet to come.

“A-az-Aziraphale…” Crowley tried to turn, in his arms. “Need – need to tell you –”

“No, you don’t,” Aziraphale kissed him again. “I know, Crowley, you don’t need to –”

“No, I do need to,” he turned, gritting his teeth through the effort, looking up at his angel with his yellow eyes gleaming. “I need to tell you. No point being scared now. They can’t get me if I’m…” he hissed, his wings almost gone. “I’m going where they can’t get me. Need to tell you. Whilst I’ve still got this face. These eyes. The old me.”

Aziraphale stroked a finger down his chin. “Crowley…”

“Love you,” Crowley forced out, blood seeping from his gums even as the last vestiges of the demon he was made it painful to confess. “Love you, Aziraphale. Always. Ages. Ever.”

“I love you, my dear,” Aziraphale kissed him hard, on the forehead. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Crowley nodded, his eyes swimming with the effort to stay awake, to keep focussed on Aziraphale’s face, as if to memorise it.

Then his back arched hard in the angel’s arms, and his eyes closed, and he fell still.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley woke slowly.

Or, slowly for him.

He was used to waking quickly, opening his eyes and feeling refreshed before getting up and starting the deeds of the day without pause. Snapping his fingers to imagine up a new suit for the day, shooting finger-guns at the mirror before slithering out into the streets to see what the day would ask to be tempted with.

This… this was like trying to crawl through treacle. And to somewhere that wasn’t exactly inviting. The bed covers felt warm and cosy, and Crowley could so easily doze off again, even as his feet sought out a cool space. There was a warm pressure behind him, and Crowley smiled to himself as he clocked it to be Aziraphale.

That was nice. He’d always liked waking up with the angel, though more often than not the angel would be up and making tea and toast after an evening’s… frivolities. It was much nicer when he stayed for a lazy morning.

“Crowley?”

Not so nice. That voice was loud, a sort of midday cry that had no business being in anyone’s ears before noon, and Crowley wanted to come to in his own time. “Mnnn,” he said, pulling the covers over his nose and mouth.

“Crowley, I can hear you. Wake up. Crowley!” Aziraphale shook his shoulder, though gently.

The angel’s touch made Crowley gasp, his eyes flying open as he rolled onto his back. It felt as though he’d dipped his shoulder in a bath of water that was somehow both hot and cold, and nice and horrid all at once. He stared at the ceiling, his brain registering that his vision, although clear, was astonishingly singular. He could see what was in front of his eyes. And nothing else.

“Uhh,” he said. Or, rather, groaned.

“Oh, my…” Aziraphale, still in his (now rather rumpled) shirt, was looking down at Crowley’s face with something like wonder. “Oh, Crowley…”

Crowley gawped up at the angel, his eyes squinting against the obvious halo, the shine of his face… it was like looking into the sun, though it wasn’t going to blind him. He’d never seen the angel look like that -

The events of the previous day smashed into Crowley’s brain like a bulldozer into an ATM. His hands flew to his face, checking everything was still where it should be. Hair, eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth, chin… “How’s it look?” he asked. Then frowned. “What’s wrong with my voice? Am I a girl?” he touched at his throat. “No… am I – Aziraphale, am I a _child_?”

Aziraphale hesitated, his eyes flickering over Crowley’s new face. “I think that depends on your definition –”

“Buggeration.” Crowley untangled himself from the duvet, and staggered over to the dressing table mirror. The trousers he’d gone to bed in slipped down his hips and threatened to give way altogether, until he caught them with a hand flapping free of a rather long sleeve.

A face looked back at him in the glass, both familiar and not. It looked as though the body he’d had before had simply aged in reverse. He still had the same hair, the same cheekbones, the same skin…

His eyes were brown.

That was curious.

And… he was younger.

“I think you’ve lost about twenty years, physically,” Aziraphale said, standing just out of sight of the mirror. “You can’t be much older than sixteen.”

“Bloody hell,” Crowley leaned closer, and looked at himself. “I never go this young. It feels wrong to even think about it.”

“…does it still feel wrong now?”

Crowley considered. “I… don’t know. My senses are off. Or, on. I don’t know. I can only feel my body, and I’m aware of my brain… but that’s it.”

“You can’t feel… your non-corporeal self?”

“My soul? No.”

The angel smiled, sadly. “I suppose it worked, then.”

Crowley stood straighter, and put his shoulders back. “Yeah. Mortal. Mortal me.” He cocked his head to one side, as if listening. “Right. Well. It’s not all bad news. I’ll grow up, won’t I?”

“Of course you will.”

“And this means you get a few more years with me,” Crowley grinned, trying to be jovial.

 Aziraphale just nodded, going to his chest of drawers, and opening one with a frown. “You need some clothes that fit.”

“As if you’ve got anything that’ll fit this rake-like frame,” Crowley sighed, looking down at himself. “I’ll have to… to buy something, I suppose… Oh, wait, have you got any money?”

Aziraphale looked over his glasses at him. “Luckily for you, yes.” He went back to rummaging.

“I’ll have to go back to the flat,” Crowley said, flexing his fingers, looking over his hands. “There might be something there worth salvaging.”

“A-ha,” Aziraphale straightened up, and held up what looked like a black, deflated drainpipe. “Here you are.”

“Are those _trousers_?” Crowley came over, and took them.

“A mistake when I ordered some from a catalogue,” Aziraphale said, primly. “I didn’t have the heart to send them back, and somehow I never got around to donating them… They might fit you.”

“I think so,” Crowley let his old trousers drop without ceremony, and reached for the new ones.

Aziraphale looked away, flapping the trousers in Crowley’s direction before facing the wall deliberately.

“You’ve seen it all before, angel,” Crowley snorted, pulling the trousers on. They did fit, perhaps a little too well in the legs, but there was no danger of them dropping down, even if they didn’t leave a lot to the imagination.

“No, I haven’t,” Aziraphale said to the plaster. “You’re a - a teenager, Crowley.”

“Only physically.”

“Which is what I’d be looking at.”

Crowley fastened his button, and frowned. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying, you’re not of age, and we are not married.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“No one’s soul was at stake, before.”

Crowley rolled his sleeves up, and touched Aziraphale on the arm. “I’m decent. Turn around.”

The angel did so, looking Crowley over with an expression the demon – no, young man – couldn’t read. “Oh, Crowley…”

“I’m still me,” Crowley said, reaching for the angel’s hand, which he wasn’t denied. “I’m still me, inside. Just a bit different.”

Aziraphale nodded, pressing his lips together hard before speaking. “Your eyes…”

“I know. I was hoping for green, but what can you do? Anything’s better than before, right?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I liked your old eyes.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

“Only you had them, you see.”

“Oh. Well, get used to it,” Crowley sniffed, trying not to let the very hot, very strangling feeling that was crawling up his throat get to him. It was obviously some reaction. “I’m stuck with them, now.” He touched at his throat. “My neck hurts.”

“Crowley?”

“And my nose, and my – my eyes…” he touched at his face, and felt wet.

“You want to cry,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley looked at his wet fingertips. “I… don’t know how to do that. I haven’t cried since the Fall…”

“Just let go.”

“But… how?” the ache closing up his windpipe was terrible, now. His hands were shaking. “My throat…”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale put his arms around him, and Crowley leaned into the embrace, feeling the heady rush of the angel’s touch. Like skating close to something he shouldn’t be allowed to see, to know.

“Uh…” he huffed against Aziraphale’s shirt. “Bit… much.”

“My dear?”

“Bit… angelic. S’overwhelming.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale blinked, and the uncomfortable enveloping of Good lost its edge, turning into something warming and comforting and so _right_ that it was all Crowley needed to let go.

He snivelled, and cried in broken sobs against Aziraphale’s chest, letting the angel shush him and stroke his hair, even kiss the top of his head, but it was all so _chaste_ , and Crowley knew it was because he was just a boy and he was so new and there wasn’t a drop of sin on his newborn soul, but even with his plans to live a life and live a _good_ life… he’d never thought about how this would affect him and Aziraphale in this way.

“I’m going to grow up so fast it’ll make your head spin,” Crowley said fiercely, wiping his nose on Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Of course you are,” Aziraphale fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it over. “But, in the meantime, I think we’d better sort out what’s going to happen with your clothes. And flat. And car,” he said, as an afterthought.

 

*

 

Aziraphale went out, and came back with a selection of t-shirts and jeans and shoes in four different sizes for Crowley to try on. “Anything that doesn’t fit, we can take back,” he said, leaving Crowley alone in the bedroom to try his things on.

It made Crowley feel shameful, Aziraphale not wanting to stay with him. He knew it was stupid, and for his own good, but he didn’t like it one bit. He picked out what to keep, and discovered his new shoe size was an eight, before taking the unwanted things back down in their carrier bag.

Aziraphale glanced out of the corner of his eye as he passed him. No doubt Crowley was a sight indeed in his skinny jeans, t-shirt, and plaid shirt that he wore open like a sort of makeshift cardigan. The basketball trainers were the least of his problems. He looked his age, and he almost felt it.

“Thank you,” he said, putting the bag down awkwardly, and standing in the bookshop, letting the book-smell wash over him in a nice wave of familiarity. He suddenly smiled. “You love this shop, don’t you?”

Aziraphale looked up. “Yes?”

“I never realised quite how much,” Crowley went over to a shelf, and pulled a face in front of the bibles. He reached up with a finger, and touched one of the spines.

Nothing happened.

He smiled wider.

“You could even read one,” Aziraphale said. “Treat yourself.”

“Maybe.” Crowley went along the shelves, reading the titles to himself, bedding in his new eyes, his new sense of touch, his new hearing (which was very disappointing). Aziraphale left him to it, for which he was grateful.

The shop bell dinged when Crowley was in the centre of the bookshelves, lifting a fantasy novel out.

“Excuse me, sir,” a rather deep voice said. “But is that your car, outside?”

“The Bentley?” Aziraphale asked, in surprise.

“Yes, that. It’s yours, then?”

“It’s mine,” Crowley came from around the shelves, and stopped in surprise at the sight of a police officer. “Oh.”

“Yours, young man?” the officer raised an eyebrow.

“Um,” Crowley blinked, and tried to remember how he usually dealt with this sort of situation. “Yes, officer,” he smiled. “Is there a problem?”

Crowley seemed to have missed suave, and taken a plunge into cheeky bastard, because the police officer’s expression darkened. “Legally yours? Are you aware there’s no tax or insurance on the vehicle?”

A horrible feeling thumped into Crowley’s stomach. He suspected it was fear. “It’s… not…” he tried to think of something to say, and realised his only option was to lie. His first sin was going to be a lie. A lie to a police officer. Well, it was one way to start.

“As it’s parked on the road, the vehicle is required to be taxed,” the office was saying. “I understand it’s a bit of a vintage thing, but that’s not an excuse, I’m afraid –”

“I’ll move it,” Crowley said quickly, aware of how high his voice was getting.

“Do you have a license?”

Crowley strongly suspected the blank piece of paper he usually handed over in response to this request wasn’t going to cut it, now. “I…” he glanced at Aziraphale, who was wincing. “No,” he admitted, the truth tasting terrible. “No, I don’t.”

“I’ll move it,” Aziraphale said. “It won’t be a problem. We’re very sorry, officer.”

The policeman blinked, and nodded. “See that it’s gone before this afternoon.” He nodded, at them both before turning somewhat robotically and walking out.

“Oh, no,” Crowley put his hands over his face. “Aziraphale, the Bentley. I can’t… What can I do?”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “Do you have the documents for it?”

“They’re probably in the glove box. Why?”

“Well, you could make an attempt to own it legally.”

“I don’t have a driving license or a birth certificate or a passport or anything,” Crowley dropped his hands. “I don’t… exist! And my car’s going to be crushed into a cube!”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll hide the car. I’ll do that, for you.”

Crowley exhaled, and leaned against the desk. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “It really means that much to you.”

“I’ve had it from new!”

“Alright, alright. But you’ll have to try and work out some way of legally owning it, and finding somewhere to keep it. I can’t hide it forever.” The angel pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley nodded, and sat on the sagging sofa, just beyond the main area of the shop. He was quiet for a few minutes. Then: “I’m going to sign the flat over to you.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Why, my dear?”

“I need to sell it,” Crowley said. “I can’t get a job looking like this, and I’m going to need money. If you can sell it for me… it’s in central London, it should get a fair amount, and I can… live on that, for a bit.”

The fact he’d be living in the bookshop wasn’t said aloud.

It was obvious.

It went without saying.

Aziraphale smiled, and went to sit beside him. He put an arm around him, and gave him a sideways hug. “I know it’s a big change, my dear. But you’re already trying. Your honesty to the police officer was admirable, it was…” he smiled wider, “Crowley, I can’t describe how it felt to see that.”

“I’ve been honest before,” Crowley pointed out.

“But it’s never made a difference to your soul.”

“Can you see it?” Crowley asked. “Can you judge what sort of state it’s in?”

“Not exactly,” Aziraphale said. “But goodness makes you shine.”

Crowley forced out a laugh. “That’s a new one.” He looked down at his arms. “I’m wearing tartan.”

“It’s plaid,” Aziraphale said. “The shop was full of it.”

“You’re finally the epitome of style,” Crowley brushed at his nose. “It had to happen eventually.” He reached for the angel’s hand. Aziraphale let him have it. “This is a bit more real than I anticipated.”

“I know, dear.”

“D’you think I’ll get used to it, angel?” Crowley ran his thumb over Aziraphale’s knuckles, and brought his hand up to his mouth –

Aziraphale took his hand away.

Crowley stared at him.

“We should sort your flat, this afternoon,” Aziraphale said mildly.

Crowley nodded, and looked down at his new shoes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some canon-typical violence in this chapter.

The flat was sold, the stocks and shares carefully signed over to Aziraphale, and the Bentley issued with new ownership documents that matched the driving licence of one Anthony J. Crowley. They used the day of his transformation, as it were, for his date of birth, and, despite Crowley’s arguments, Aziraphale confirmed in writing that he was sixteen on that day. There had been more than a few minor miracles on Aziraphale’s part when it came to getting Crowley the sort of documents that would let him lead a normal mortal life, but there’d been no comeback on them. Apparently, Heaven was rather keen to see Crowley succeed, as well.

It took Crowley three attempts to pass his driving test when he turned seventeen (his excuse was that they wouldn’t let him take the test in the Bentley), but he eventually managed it, and stowed the pink card happily in the wallet he’d had to acquire.

He needed it, because Crowley now had a job. One he got paid to do.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale pulled the bedcovers off him. “Crowley, get up, it’s nearly ten.”

“Uh…” Crowley groped for the duvet, yanking it back up. “Give me a minute.”

“I don’t have _a minute_ ,” Aziraphale wrestled the covers away again. “Your replacement is out there, doing deeds, and I am expected to thwart them.”

“Who is it?” Crowley raised his head with interest.

“Someone called Eligos.”

Crowley’s eyes opened wide, and he sat up. “Eligos, Great Duke of Hell, commander of legions?”

“I don’t care what his titles are,” Aziraphale took him by the arms to make him stand. “I’ve got thwarting to do, and you need to mind the shop. Get dressed. And when was the last time you brushed your teeth?”

Crowley let himself be bullied until he was washed and dressed, taking his place behind the shop counter as Aziraphale got his coat on.

“Don’t buy anything, if you can help it,” the angel said. “And I’ll be back at supper-time.”

“Don’t engage him, if you do see him,” Crowley said quickly. “I mean, go out and spread the good news, but don’t… try and take him on.”

“And I suppose he’ll be a positive delight should he see me first?”

“I doubt it,” Crowley said, darkly.

“Anything I should look out for, then?”

Crowley frowned, and tried to remember. Memories of his time in Hell were blurry, and they seemed to get more blurry as time went on. He remembered his time on Earth – all six millennia of it – perfectly, but remembering Hell was like trying to hold water in your cupped hands. Bits of it kept on leaking away. “He used to carry a lance. Maybe look out for a walking stick? Or an actual lance, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“I’ll be on the lookout,” Aziraphale smiled. “Take care.”

“Bye,” Crowley said, watching the angel go. “I love you,” he said softly, once the door had banged shut.

 

*

 

It wasn’t that Aziraphale didn’t say it, anymore. He did say it. He said it without prompting, and he said it with meaning. But he didn’t say it after a kiss (because there’d been none of those, and kisses on the head don’t count), or in bed (Aziraphale hadn’t slept in a year), or when their hands lazily met over the table after a meal (that had happened twice, and Aziraphale had looked painfully wretched each time).

Crowley had half-heartedly thought about getting the angel drunk and seeing what really lay under his iron-clad constitution, but decided against it. Another year, and he’d be a legal adult, and things would be different.

If Aziraphale wanted them to be.

Crowley was not enjoying living in a teenage body that was determined to wake up in various states that (although not sinful) were embarrassing and frustrating to the point of wanting to pull his own hair out. He even (when Aziraphale wasn’t in the building) prayed for it to stop, or for him to at least have the strength to deal with it happening beyond his control, but He didn’t seem to be granting those sort of requests.

It felt weird, praying. Like taking an exam he hadn’t revised for. But he knew that He was listening, even if He wasn’t answering.

Crowley hadn’t realised he’d missed that.

 

*

 

As it was a Saturday, the shop was fairly busy. Crowley spent most of it reading, taking money when customers came up to the desk, occasionally pointing them in the direction of the correct shelves. It felt almost unnatural not to send them the wrong way, but it was, he reminded himself, all point on his Heavenly loyalty card, and it would hopefully be cashed in in a few decades for a nice harp and a seat on the nearest cloud.

And Aziraphale could come and sit beside him.

That was the thought Crowley kept in mind when small humans with ice creams came in, their sticky fingers headed for the literature, or when a wet dog dripped puddles on the floor, and he had to mop up after it.

“Excuse me?”

Crowley looked over the top of _The Amber Spyglass_. “Yes?”

“I wondered if you could value this, for me?” a youngish man in a tweed jacket held a book out in a plastic bag. He had an umbrella dangling off one arm.

“The man who values isn’t in, today,” Crowley licked a finger, and turned a page. “Sorry.”

“Can’t you take a look at it?”

“I would, but I’m not a valuer.”

“Can’t you take a guesstimate?”

Crowley looked up. The man was smiling benignly at him. “I said ‘no’.”

The man rolled his eyes, and took the book back. “You minding the shop by yourself, then?”

 _Careful,_ something warned Crowley. “No,” he lied, resenting the man for making him do it. “No, my… dad is in the back. But he doesn’t value things either, so don’t ask.”

“Fair enough. Didn’t think you looked old enough to be in here on your own.”

Crowley smirked. “How old do you think I am?”

“…eighteen?”

“Six thousand and seventeen,” Crowley said, in what he hoped was a dangerous voice.

The man laughed. “What – you’re a vampire, or something? You’ve been reading too many books.”

“Or else I’m just looking especially well for my age,” Crowley shrugged.

“You know what?” The man put his head on one side. “I think that’s probably it.”

Crowley blinked, at the same instant he realised the shop was empty, aside from him, and the man, who was staring at him in something like triumph. “Um,” Crowley licked his lips apart. “Was there something –”

“Thought you’d be harder to find than this, Crawly,” the man slammed his hands onto the desk, leaning over, and Crowley could suddenly smell the sulphur coming from him. “Didn’t think you’d be as stupid as to hole up in the angel’s haunt.”

Crowley pushed his chair back, against the wall.

The man – demon – walked through the desk like it was air. He grabbed Crowley by the shirt front, and lifted him up, pinning him against the wall as he kicked the chair out of the way.

Crowley struggled, then stopped as a knee held one of his legs still, and hands pinned his forearms to the plaster.

The demon leaned close, and gave him a sniff. “You stink, Crawly. You’ve really gone for mortality, then?”

“Better than the alternative,” Crowley said, bravado all he had left. “What – you’ve been sent to hunt me down? I’m flattered.”

“You think the legions of Hell are so concerned with your loss?”

“I think that if I end up upstairs, it’ll be classed as defecting,” Crowley said. “You wouldn’t want any little demons getting ideas, now, would you?”

The demon snarled, bearing his teeth, which were pointed.

“Watch it, you’re losing your grip on that body. You’ll be sprouting horns, next.”

“I could tear you in half, Crawly, and drag you down where you belong.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Crowley said. “I’ve been ever such a good boy since I got here, you know. Lots of good deeds. And being a murder victim would be a nice touch. You really think I’d be going down to Hell with you?”

Doubt crept into the demon’s eyes.

“Bit of a risk, isn’t it?” Crowley said. “When you could end up being the one who sent _Crawly_ to Heaven?” He chanced it. “Eligos?”

The snarl and hot breath at his throat confirmed the name.

“What did you do to get sent up here?” Crowley went on. “Sit on someone’s favourite frozen throne for laugh? Did you piss in the Styx? Let me guess –”

“I have been sent here,” Eligos snarled, “to deal with the incompetence _you_ left in your wake. Cavorting with humans and even angels,” he spat. In Crowley’s face. “You did well to change when you did, Crawly. Our master grew tired of your flouting of his rule.”

“You mean he was sick of Adam being one step ahead of him all the time.” Crowley wished he could wipe his face. He could feel the mucousy spit running down it, but he had to keep talking. “Chip off the old block, that kid, I tell you.”

“I don’t believe you’re in enough credit, yet,” Eligos’ hand went for Crowley’s throat, wrapping thick, calloused fingers around the thin skin and gripping hard. Crowley gasped, his legs kicking involuntarily. “I can feel sin running under your pathetic mortal skin. Lust, pride, greed, sloth… they’re all there, and they’re dragging you right down to me.” His tongue licked up Crowley’s cheek.

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you,” a prim voice came from behind.

Crowley shut his eyes just as a mugful of cold tea was flung out of Aziraphale’s hand at the demon strangling him.

There was a HISS like a coke bottle opening, only it kept going.

The hand left his throat, and he sank to the floor, hiding his face as whatever was happening to Eligos happened without him seeing. If he couldn’t see it, the effects wouldn’t be felt, even if the demon burst into flames beside him.

There was screeching and more hissing, and eventually, the noise came to a sudden halt.

And Aziraphale was pulling his hands away from his face. “It’s alright, my dear, it’s taken care of.”

“You,” Crowley said, getting shakily to his feet, “took far too long to sort that out.”

“Well, it’s easier with neat water,” Aziraphale huffed, looking at the patch of brown gloop that Eligos had been reduced to, having been hit in the face with Holy Tea. “I had to do the part of it that was milk, as well, which was tiresome.”

“Well, maybe it’s worth keeping some on hand,” Crowley said, massaging his throat. “They won’t be happy about this.”

“On the other hand, upstairs will be delighted,” Aziraphale said. “They might even let me have a weekend of, my dear.”

“Fat lot of good that is to me…” Crowley went for the chair, then realised it was on the other side of the shop, the seat missing. “I need to…” his legs buckled, and Aziraphale caught him, helping him to the floor, out of sight of the mess on the floorboards.

“Take your time, Crowley. You just faced down a demon.”

“Not my first time,” Crowley tried to wink, then shuddered. “Uh, he spat at me. What a bastard.”

“Oh, I thought that was tea,” Aziraphale fished out a handkerchief and gave Crowley’s face a wipe. “I am sorry, my dear.”

Crowley caught his wrist. “Angel…”

“I know, I should have realised –”

“Angel,” Crowley said again, interrupting. “Angel, do you miss me, at all?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Miss you? You’re here, aren’t you?”

“You know what I mean,” Crowley said. “Do you miss me… biblically”

The angel blushed, and tucked his handkerchief away.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Crowley sighed. “Aziraphale… you know that legally…”

“I know that it isn’t love you miss,” Aziraphale said.

“It is, though,” Crowley said. “I miss you holding me and saying you love me. I miss you kissing the back of my neck. I miss waking up with you. I… I think you still love me, but I don’t know-”

Aziraphale kissed him.

Briefly, but on the lips. Firm, dry, but there.

Crowley smiled, even as the angel drew back. “That’s it. That’s what I missed.”

“I tell you I love you,” the angel said, his eyes shining. “You must know I mean it.”

“I do know,” Crowley said. “But… I need you to show me, as well. Especially now. I can’t… feel things, the way I used to, angel. I can’t sense what mood you’re in, I can’t see your halo… All I can feel is… a sort of goodness, and that’s only when we touch and you haven’t turned it off. I’m not like you, anymore,” he sighed. “I’m not an angel.”

Aziraphale nodded, and took his hands. “You know I can’t put your soul in danger, Crowley. There’s no going back.”

Crowley looked at their hands. “Then… we’ll just have to do this properly, won’t we?”

Aziraphale’s face said he didn’t know what Crowley meant.

But it didn’t matter - Crowley had a plan.


	4. Chapter 4

The most disturbing thing was how much time had slowed down.

Aziraphale thought nothing of ‘popping out for a bit’ and not returning for several weeks. Crowley eventually had to point out that it was quite unfair of him not to at least leave a note, and that people complained when Crowley was running the shop but had no one to consult about book sales and valuations and so on. It also meant Crowley had to fend for himself in terms of the real world.

He found it was difficult to be taken seriously as someone who looked seventeen. And he was finding out more about his mortal body. He discovered that his tolerance for alcohol had plummeted, and also no one would sell him anyway – so he ended up trying one of the dusty bottles in Aziraphale’s cellar, and regretting it intensely the next morning when he was being sick. Crowley found that his mortal body started to malfunction if he went for so long without eating a plant of some kind, and also if he didn’t drink enough water, and if he skipped washing his face for enough days in a row then he got spots that didn’t go away for weeks. Just when he thought he had the hang of things, he contracted the flu.

“You should have said sooner,” Aziraphale sighed, letting himself into the bedroom, where Crowley was dying by inches. There were tissues all over the floor, glass of water abandoned on the side-table, and a very hot Crowley under the covers, sweating out a fever.

“You need a phone,” the human said, his throat aching. “I didn’t even know you’d be listening.”

“I’m always listening, Crowley,” Aziraphale put a cool hand to his head, and Crowley leaned against it. “But prayers have to be re-routed from Heaven, you know.” Crowley sniffed.

“I’d’ve settled for Gabriel,” he said. He opened one eye. “Are you going to help me?”

“I’ll go and get you some medicine.”

“Bugger that,” Crowley forced out. “Miracle it away, angel, I’m in torment.”

“I can’t just miracle away your illnesses, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, picking up the used tissues with a nose-wrinkle of disgust. “Humans get sick, it’s what happens.”

“But I’m dying!”

“You’re not dying,” Aziraphale waved a hand. “You’re a bit dehydrated, and you have the flu, yes, but this isn’t the end, my dear.”

Crowley made a noise of utter distress, and hid under the duvet. “What’s the use of you at all?”

“You’ll be alright in a few days, dear.” Aziraphale patted him on the hip, and went off to make him a cup of tea.

The angel was right. Crowley didn’t die, and he did get better in about a week, but the illness shook him, and he started reading books about health, and wellbeing, and vaccines, and even went out and got himself registered with a GP, who was somewhat bemused by a stroppy teenager who spoke like someone from another time slouching into the practice and spinning a story about his parents being hippies and could he please have a full course of every vaccine he should have had since birth?

“Thank God for the NHS,” Crowley winced, later that day, his arm throbbing.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale smiled. Nye Bevan had been a close acquaintance. “Don’t get too upset, dear, humans get sick all the time…” he looked into the middle distance, and Crowley could practically hear him thinking.

“Don’t,” he said. “I’ll worry enough for both of us, angel.”

And then somehow, two years had passed since Crowley woke up human.

“Happy Birthday,” Aziraphale said in a sing-song voice, when Crowley came, yawning, down the stairs.

“Thanks,” Crowley stretched, then paused, arms out to the sides, as he spotted the cake and handful of gifts on the shop counter. “Oh.” He blushed.

“I haven’t got you much,” the angel said quickly. “I know money isn’t exactly free-flowing, and some people don’t enjoy the attention, but it is your special day, and –”

Crowley kissed him square on the lips, to shut him up, parting with a loud kiss-noise that made the angel go red to the ears.

“Yes, well,” he pushed his glasses up his nose. “Er.”

“Thank you,” Crowley picked up one of the presents. “I do appreciate it.” He unwrapped the gift, and smiled widely at the book on rare tropical plants, unwrapping next a propagator and a box of seeds. “Thanks, angel, this is…” he stopped, and smiled properly. “Thank you.” He knew he was smiling dopily, but something like a great rush of trapped air was swelling in his chest, and he felt as though his skin was prickling, and he just…

Aziraphale adjusted his glasses, again. “Well, cake for breakfast, dear?”

“Yeah,” Crowley smiled up one side of his face. “Yeah, ok, angel.”

 

*

 

They ended up at The Ritz, Crowley in a new suit that he suspected Aziraphale had metamorphized from one of his old ones, as the fit was slightly on the small side, though the deep blue of the material was new, and went well with the black shirt he wore, two buttons open, the pale bumps of his collarbones clearly on display.

The two of them received a couple of odd looks. They didn’t match, anymore, and Crowley overheard at least two people saying they thought he was a rent boy. He was incredibly annoyed that he wasn’t able to turn their soups into sulphuric acid.

If Aziraphale noticed, he didn’t say anything, talking happily about nothing in particular, so gradually Crowley almost relaxed, save for the weight in one of his pockets.

He’d been saving up what little money he had, and had been paying it off for about a year, and he was quite sure that the metal wasn’t great quality, but he was also sure the angel wouldn’t mind… He swallowed, nervously.

“Did you want dessert, dear?” Aziraphale asked, when the plates were taken away.

“Er…” Crowley checked his pocket, as he made a show of looking for the menu. “Coffee, did you think?”

“You don’t think you can fit in a dessert?” Aziraphale glanced at Crowley’s flat stomach.

“Well, there is a lot of cake left back at the shop.” Crowley inched in his chair, and coughed, managing to extract the box without the angel (now distracted by a coffee list) noticing. “Blessed are the thrifty, isn’t that the saying?”

“I don’t think that’s precisely it,” Aziraphale said, ordering two filter coffees, and turning back to Crowley just as Crowley thumped the little box on the table before he lost his nerve entirely. The angel gave a small frown. “What’s this?”

Crowley wondered where his tongue had gone, because it certainly didn’t help his speak when he made a rasping noise in reply. He coughed, and sat up, and sort of gestured at the box.

Aziraphale glanced at it. “You realise we’re celebrating _your_ birthday?”

“Angel, that’s not the…” Crowley trailed off, his brain kicking into gear.

He’d been waiting for his eighteenth. Waiting, because he was a grown, legal, adult, and he could ask Aziraphale… he could… which would mean they could…

He looked at the box. Aziraphale _should_ know what this was. He should know what Crowley was about to do, was about to _ask_.

But he just looked utterly bewildered.

Suddenly, the box looked rather small, and battered, and second-hand, and embarrassment slimed over Crowley’s skin.

“What is it, Crowley?” Aziraphale was reaching for it.

Crowley clamped his hand over the top, and took it back. “Doesn’t matter.”

Aziraphale frowned deeper, his hand hovering in mid-air. “Dear –”

“It’s fine,” Crowley pocketed it. “It’ll keep.”

Aziraphale was clearly engaging his brain, and was obviously grasping in the dark for a thread that was getting closer…

Two coffees landed on the table, clearly dropping a sinkhole in the middle of the road of thought Aziraphale had been travelling on.

“Oh, great,” Crowley said, with zero enthusiasm. He picked up his cup. “So. What’re you up to this year?”

Aziraphale blinked, and seemed to shake himself, before picking up his own cup. “Well, there’s talk of some sort of dreadful shake-up in America, and one simply can’t have too many of our people…” he started wittering on, and Crowley let the weight of the ring in his pocket drag his mood down, lower than he’d ever felt as a human.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some swearing, some angst ahead.

Crowley thought about hiding the ring. He thought about taking it back to the shop and getting his money back, too. But in the end he settled for a sort of half-arsed attempt at hiding it, by putting it in the drawer at the top of his bedside table. If Aziraphale chose to go rummaging (and Crowley didn’t know if that was in his nature), and he came across it, that was his own doing.

In his old form, if he wanted not to think about something he could simply file it away in the vastness of his brain for another century, or else deliberately distract himself through increasingly risky or hellish shenanigans. It was more difficult in a human body, where disappointment and guilt wormed around his insides, demanding his attention.

But, now he was officially eighteen, there was one thing he could do to stop thinking about it.

“Oh, my dear…” Aziraphale winced, coming home one Saturday night to find Crowley on the floor. “Do tell me this is nothing serious.”

“I can’t…. can’t do the… letting go…” Crowley tried to get control over his tongue, which felt heavy and furry, and he suspected he’d been licking the carpet. “Can’t let go of the floor,” he managed.

“Why ever not?”

“I’ll fall off.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale pushed his glasses up his nose. “Yes, that is a problem.” He bent down, and lifted Crowley under the arms, dragging him to his feet, which skidded on the floorboards before making an attempt to plant themselves. “I’ve got you.”

“Thanksss,” Crowley slurred, draping his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Where were you? I was drinking alone, like… like… Miss Havisham.”

“Miss Havisham wasn’t a drunk,” Aziraphale sighed, wincing at Crowley’s wine-breath. “She was a jilted bride.”

“Same… fucking… difference.”

“Dear, really.”

Crowley went to push his sunglasses up. Then remembered he hadn’t worn any for two years, so ended up smearing a hand up his face. “You could sort me out, you know.”

“I think perhaps this will teach you a lesson.”

Crowley giggled, the depths of the innuendo only reachable by someone who has drunkenly by-passed sense. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I –”

“Except no, you wouldn’t,” Crowley pushed back a bit. “B-b-cause I could be bare-arsed over the bloody _desk_ and you’d just drape a - a doily over me or – or something…”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows were in danger of leaving his face entirely. “Crowley!”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley sighed, flopping forward again, and letting his face crash against the angel’s in what might have been called a ‘kiss’ if you were being extremely generous, and weren’t looking properly. Aziraphale made a noise, and put a hand to Crowley’s shoulder, but Crowley ignored it, pulling himself closer to Aziraphale by the angel’s belt-loops. He kissed as well as he could remember how in his inebriated state, trying to grind against the angel, but feeling himself pushed back by something that wasn’t quite strength – it was angelic Will.

“Crowley, you’re drunk,” Aziraphale said. His glasses were askew, and his face was red. “You can’t do this when you’re –”

“Well, you don’t bloody want me when I’m sober!” Crowley wanted to shove him, but turned in a huff, instead, almost losing his balance and having to catch himself on the doorframe. The wood dug into his hand and scraped the skin open.

Aziraphale glared. “You know that isn’t true.”

“I’m an adult,” Crowley snapped, nursing his hand. “I’m a grown up, and I want you, but you don’t want me.”

“That isn’t –”

“You don’t love me,” Crowley looked up.

“Crowley, I do love you –”

“Not like you used to,” the young man countered. “You love me in a…. _all creatures great and small_ way. Not – not in a Aziraphale and Crowley way.”

Aziraphale folded his arms, and Crowley felt something like dread crawl over his skin. It was the way the angel did the simple gesture. As though Crowley was suddenly aware of something supernatural and powerful and _old_ … he suspected he wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been three sheets to the wind.

“Crowley, I am putting you to bed – to sleep. If you want to discuss this ludicrous idea, you can do so when you’re sober.”

“Coward,” Crowley said, letting the angel take his hand. He didn’t even notice that Aziraphale healed the cuts on his palm, just let himself be bullied into bed and given a glass of water to drink.

Crowley was awake at 5am, vomiting copiously into the toilet as Aziraphale draped a warm towel around his shoulders, and readied his toothbrush for when he was done.

“I must have eaten something bad,” he said, spitting paste into the sink.

“Clearly,” Aziraphale said, handing him a washcloth. “Do try to think of your liver next time, dear. You’ve only got the one.”

“Mm,” Crowley pulled the towel closer around himself, and leaned back into the angel’s arms. “M’sorry. Shouted at you. Before.”

“It’s quite alright, dear. Heat of the moment.”

Crowley kept his eye closed. It seemed easier. “I… do worry. About it. Though.”

Aziraphale was quiet, for a moment. “What can I do?”

“I don’t know. Well. I do know. But it’s Catch-22, isn’t it? I miss having sex, which is a lust thing, and you can’t do the love bit without sating my desire for the lust bit, and we’re stuck, aren’t we?”

“… that seems to cover it, yes.”

Crowley turned, eyes still closed, and rested his forehead in the curve of Aziraphale’s neck. The angel smelled of warmth. “I can handle a bit of sin. All humans can handle a bit of sin. It’s not a millstone.”

“But…” Aziraphale seemed to shudder, and his arms went tight around Crowley. “You don’t know what it’s like, seeing you like this. I can – I can _see_ it, Crowley. Every time you fib about using up the last of the sugar, or – or when you preen in the mirror because you know you can make the parking warden let you out first if you smile at him, or when you glare at happy couples in the street – they’re all tiny, tiny sins, Crowley, but I see them on you like tattoos.”

Crowley almost opened his eyes. “…I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry. I… I shouldn’t cluck over you, I know, but this is so _final_ , and so _fast…_ ” the angel kissed him on the cheek. “We should get you back to bed.”

“Come with me,” Crowley said.

“Alright.”

Crowley had expected more resistance, but didn’t press the issue, letting the angel guide him to bed in the dark. Crowley assumed the position of the little spoon, trying not to think about the pain in his stomach and joints, and to concentrate on the soft curve at his back, the warm arm around him, and the gentle kiss at the nape of his neck.

 

*

 

Crowley was almost nineteen.

He’d made the decision not to press Aziraphale, for now. If the angel was so worried about tainting Crowley with sin, he would just hold off until he was ready to fish that ring out of his drawer again. Right now, it didn’t seem so important. They were extremely close, perhaps closer than they had ever been, and they shared a bed most nights, and a lot of their meals, and casual touches were now on the regular, even the occasional heated kiss behind the bookshelves, though Aziraphale was always quick to cover Crowley in a veritable shower of _I love you_ s, afterwards, though they were both aware that not saying it around didn’t make it any less true.

Crowley had to admit he was more or less happy with the state of things, even if he did occasionally have to commit a mortal sin in the shower. He never mentioned this to Aziraphale, though he was certain the angel knew about it and was silenced by sheer embarrassment.

“I’m afraid I’ll be away for a few weeks coming,” Aziraphale dropped into the conversation as though he was garnishing soup with a particularly dry crouton. “Forgive me.”

“Where’re you being sent?” Crowley looked up from his phone. He’d recently discovered social media, and couldn’t believe he hadn’t had a direct hand in it Before.

“Nowhere too drastic. Germany, for the pre-Christmas run-up.”

“Why?”

“Well, plenty of time to spread charitable thoughts and moods in all those festive markets.”

Crowley nodded. “But you’ll be back for Christmas Day?”

“I should hope so, my dear… you know I shall have to visit Heaven at some point during the day.”

“Yes, I remember,” Crowley refreshed his feed. “Jesus’ birthday party must be a riot.”

“What happens… Below, on… that day?”

Crowley looked up, and tried to remember. “Well… all the family arguments and ungratefulness over gifts, and so on… that usually keeps us – kept – keeps them happy enough. Well, not happy, but… satisfied.”

“I’m surprised Adam’s birthday isn’t celebrated in some sort of way.”

“Everyone tries to ignore the fact he exists,” Crowley said, frowning. “I mean… it’s not the sort of thing they’d celebrate. They don’t really celebrate anything. Unless someone’s getting his wings torn off for disobeying.” He looked away, aware of the angel reading into his words.

“So, you’ll be fine, then?”

“Just paint a demon-repelling circle on the doorstep, and I’ll be careful not to go home with any strange men,” Crowley smiled.

“Oh, my dear.”

 

*

 

Aziraphale left the next morning, with a soft kiss and a promise to be back as soon as he was permitted.

Crowley didn’t exactly wave him off, as the angel simply vanished, but he did make a hot chocolate and drink it slowly, aware that Aziraphale would usually have made one at this sort of time. He sat behind the desk, watching the electric lights on the squat Christmas tree flash on and off in a twee sort of attempt to both attract and repel customers. Crowley ran a hand over the back of his head, noting he needed yet another haircut.

He missed Aziraphale horribly, and it had only been forty minutes.

It was going to be a tough few weeks.

 

***

 

Aziraphale had not enjoyed Germany. He usually did – there was a great deal to be said for mulled wine and pretzels and roasted meats – but this time, no matter how much cajoling Malcolm aimed at him.

“There’s a choir,” the cherub nudged Aziraphale. “We could join them, add a touch of something to the song.”

Aziraphale bit the inside of his mouth. Malcolm only came down at Christmas, and never really got the hang of blending in. “I doubt they want us joining. We’re strangers.”

“There are no strangers at Christmas, Aziraphale.”

“Let’s make a donation, instead,” Aziraphale mentally checked his purse. They could have miracled more money, of course, but he preferred not to. “And then we should head to the homeless shelter.”

Malcolm followed him like a little puppy, wondering aloud at the battery-powered spinning lights held by the children, and convincing Aziraphale to buy them some candy floss to share. “You’re sad,” he said, his mouth spiderwebbed in pink floss. “Do you miss your demon?”

“He’s not a demon anymore,” Aziraphale said, giving a quick version of the story. “And yes. I don’t want him to be lonely at Christmas.”

“I suppose the danger is you don’t know how many Christmasses he’s got left,” Malcolm licked his lips.

Aziraphale spluttered. “My dear, I hardly think that’s the sort of topic –”

“It _has_ crossed your mind, though.”

Aziraphale couldn’t lie, but he could huff in annoyance.

Malcolm handed him the candy floss. “Why don’t you go? It’s festive enough here.”

“If Gabriel gets word I’ve left you on your own…”

“I’m not totally senseless,” Malcolm said, picking some chewing gum off the side of a little bin.

Aziraphale slapped it out of his hand. “I can last until tomorrow. I’m not sure you can.”

It was a long thirty-six hours. Malcolm and Aziraphale spent most of dispelling bar brawls and encouraging people to look down and speak to the homeless and the rough sleepers in the city. Then, purses empty and bellies full, they embraced, and prepared to go their separate ways.

“I’ll see you Above, on the Day?” Malcolm said. He still had a wonderful black eye from trying to separate two women who had been fighting over the last sparkly pair of shoes in the department store.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said.

“Give my regards to your Crowley,” Malcolm smiled. “I’m sure you’ll have many Christmasses together, Aziraphale.” And with that fairly worrying comment, he vanished in a flurry of snow and feathers.

Aziraphale waited until the holy light had vanished, then did the same.

 

*

 

He materialised in the bookshop, and to his great surprise found it empty. The lights were off, and the only warmth was from the backed-up fire in the room to the rear of the shop. It was rather eerie.

“Crowley?” he called, hesitantly, though he couldn’t sense Crowley’s soul at all. “Crowley..?”

No answer. He couldn’t help feeling rather put out – he’d come back as soon as he was able, and the blessed man wasn’t even at home. And it looked as though he’d been out for some time. Aziraphale wandered into the back room, and sighed at the sight of the piled-up dishes in the sink.

Then, the front door rattled.

Aziraphale brightened, and turned with a smile, as a laugh stopped him in the dark doorway.

“You live here? What – above the shop, like?”

“In it. I work here, as well. Shit.” The door slammed, and Crowley cursed. “Just watch your step, there’s no carpet here.”

“Oh, isn’t it sweet?” a woman’s giggle came.

Aziraphale froze. And promptly turned himself invisible, slinking carefully out of the doorway and behind the desk, watching with wide eyes as Crowley – with his hair cut in some sort of modern style with buzz-cut sides – took the coat of a young woman who was wearing what might as well have been underwear beneath it. It was a lovely dress, Aziraphale told himself, if only there had been around four times the amount of material.

“There’s a fire on in the back, and wine in the fridge,” Crowley said, hanging their coats up.

“Wine? Bit grown up, isn’t it?”

Crowley shrugged. “I like it.”

She kissed him on the cheek.

Aziraphale watched her go into the back room, and Crowley follow her. He ought to vanish entirely, he knew. Whatever Crowley was doing was none of his business – he was entitled to do whatever he liked, of course, and he didn’t know he was being spied upon…

But Aziraphale couldn’t leave.

He made himself formless, weightless, invisible and tiny, and floated through to the back room, hovering in a corner of the ceiling, watching as Crowley organised some clean wine glasses, and the young woman checked her phone, and sent a message to a friend, telling her where she was, and who she was with.

“Careful,” Crowley handed her a glass. “It’s a bit full.”

She smirked at him, and sipped down half of it at once.


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley was nervous. It was the first time he’d brought anyone back in _any_ circumstance, and now they were here he was somewhat aware of the old-fashioned bookshop, the dishes he hadn’t bothered with still visible in the sink, and the fact that the television (which he was switching on to give his hands something to do) was still one of those box-type ones that took three men to lift and cast a shadow against the wall even when it wasn’t switched on.

“This place is very retro,” the girl – Charlie – said. She settled back further on the sofa, her hair like a dark black cloud around her head as she leaned. “Sort of like old, but in a good way? Like, it’s come back around?”

“I’m sure my – my friend’ll be thrilled to hear he’s back in style,” Crowley settled on a comedy panel show, and exchanged the remote in his hand for his wine glass.

“So, your friend owns this place? Are you at uni, or something?”

“No, I work here.”

“You’re not studying?” Something in her tone sounded disappointed.

“I…” Crowley could feel a lie forming on his tongue. It rolled off before he could stop himself. “I’m taking a year off, maybe a couple of years,” he said. “Get a bit of money saved up before… you know.”

Her expression softened a bit. “Oh, cool. That’s interesting. It is pretty hard to go to uni and work. I do two days a week at the Union bar up at city. Better than waiting tables, at least students don’t cause too much trouble when they know the upkeep comes out their fees.”

Crowley laughed gently, and sipped his wine. “What are you studying?”

“French and German.”

“Oh,” Crowley blinked in surprise. Having only recently surrendered his gift of tongues, he hadn’t quite made the leap to realising that languages had to be learned. “Wow. You… must be very clever.”

She laughed, and put the glass down, running a finger down the stem. Her nails were painted a shimmery gold, just like her dress. “You don’t have to butter me up, Anthony. We’re both adults.”

Anthony. He’d had to say it, when she said she didn’t like people who went by their last name only. It felt strange, like wearing shoes on the wrong feet.

“Adults?”

“Well, I know why I’m here. You don’t have to charm me too much,” she smiled, and reached out, running a hand up Crowley’s sleeve from wrist to elbow. Her dark brown skin looked beautiful against his pale blue shirt.

Something, not unlike alarm bells, sounded in the recesses of Crowley’s brain. First a kiss. Now this.

“Um,” he sat up, slightly. “Did you want to eat anything? We could order a pizza in. I’ve not really eaten since breakfast, I can be really bad at remembering to eat –”

“So I see, skinny boy,” Charlie smiled, touching his collarbones, now, pinching the rise of them. “But I’m ok. If you think you’ve got the energy.”

Crowley realised he was leaning back. If he went any further she’d be on top of him.

 _That’s fine_ , a little voice in his head sing-songed. _It’s ok, just let it happen. She wants it, you might as well just allow it and chalk it up to experience._

But a louder voice said _No_.

“Charlie,” he said, wishing he could sound firmer. “I think… there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.”

She paused, her fingers on his top button. “What?”

“I – I haven’t brought you back for… what you think.”

She sat back sharply. “What the hell d’you mean?”

“Nothing sinister,” Crowley said quickly. “I just… not for…” he blushed.

Charlie stared, a laugh threatening at her mouth. “You don’t like me?”

“I like you,” Crowley said. “That’s why I asked if you wanted to come back.”

“But you don’t want a shag.”

He blushed harder. “No.”

“Are you gay?”

The question threw Crowley for six. “Um. Gay? I – I don’t… I’ve never really sat down and thought about it –”

“Or ace?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” he added darkly, thinking for the first time that evening about Aziraphale. “I’m… sorry, if you thought –”

“Look, I’m not saying you’re obviously gay,” Charlie sniffed, picking her wine glass back up, “but I was pretty much throwing myself at you, and yet here we are.”

“I just don’t want to have sex with someone I don’t…” _know? Love?_ Crowley wished he could evaporate to escape this situation.

“Do you fancy me?”

“That’s a loaded question,” he said. “If I say _no_ , you’ll be upset.”

“But you asked me back. I don’t get why you’d ask me back if you don’t.” She drained her drink.

“Because I wanted to talk to you,” Crowley said, wondering if he’d missed an obvious point. “You were funny, and clever, and – and I thought… I don’t have m…any friends, you see, not my own – own age, at any rate, and I thought –”

“So you went to a nightclub to find a friend?” Charlie gave him such a dubious look Crowley winced. “I have to say, this sounds rather like bullshit. Unless you’ve got a better excuse, I think I’ll take off. You can call me a taxi. Where’s your bathroom?”

Crowley miserably gave her directions upstairs, and organised a taxi on his phone whilst she was gone. He poured himself another glass of wine, and scowled as the comedy show on TV laughed at him.

There was a beep of a car horn, outside.

Charlie clattered down the stairs, her makeup immaculate and her face impassive. “Thanks for the drink,” she sniffed, pulling her coat on. “Word of advice, Anthony, people don’t usually pick up mates in bars. And if they do, they don’t bring them home to places they share with a single male flatmate, where there’s only one bed.” She gave him a pointed look. “I think you need to maybe have a word with yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said. “I didn’t mean for…”

“I know, but you need to know these things,” she put her hand on the door handle. “It’s what happens in society, yeah? Pick up a girl from a bar and ask her back, maybe assume sex is on the cards? And if you don’t want it, don’t go back with anyone. Or ask them back to yours. Try meeting some friends during the day.” She gave him a sad sort of smile, and let herself out, getting into the taxi and immediately getting on her phone, presumably to complain about her evening to her friends.

Crowley locked the door securely, and pulled the blinds down.

He’d been so lonely, and the leaflet for the Christmas Dance had come through the letterbox, he thought he’d go and try it, and it had been so busy and happy… he’d even danced, and had a lot of people speak to him, but… clearly, taking someone home with you was where it had gone wrong.

He rested his head against the window. Loneliness could clearly make you do stupid things.

Still. It was a good thing the angel hadn’t been there to witness that.

He didn’t bother going back for the rest of the wine, just left it there and went upstairs by himself.

 

*

 

Aziraphale counted to three thousand before risking moving from the ceiling corner.

Crowley hadn’t known he was there, and Aziraphale knew he’d be stunningly embarrassed to find out he’d had a witness to that. The angel shook his formless shape as he recalled how that beautiful girl had touched Crowley, had desired him… And the fear and realisation in Crowley’s eyes.

But what hurt more than that was Crowley’s obvious loneliness. He’d been so alone, he’d tried to find company, and had made a social faux pas.

Aziraphale twisted with guilt.

He drifted into the main bookshop, and made a big show of materialising, complete with knocking a few Readers’ Digests off the desk.

There was a thud, from upstairs.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called, as if he’d just arrived. “Crowley?”

Crowley came barrelling down the stairs like a rocket, his shirt undone, and shoes off, and threw himself at the angel in a blur.

“Oof,” Aziraphale caught him firmly. “Crowley, what –”

“Where the hell have you been?” Crowley looked up from somewhere around the angel’s middle. His eyes were a bit red around the rims. “You’ve been gone _ages_.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale pulled him upright to embrace him properly, hands on his bare skin. “There was a lot to be done, but I… I should have come back sooner, my dear.”

“Yes, you should.” Crowley exhaled, and leaned heavily against him. “You can’t go away like that again. I forbid it.”

“Crowley…”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re an angel and you can’t disobey,” Crowley snorted. “I get it. Should be used to it after six thousand years, shouldn’t I? Well, it’s different now, ok? Time moves differently for me. The weeks are longer, and sometimes even the hours drag. You go away for a bit and you don’t realise what goes on. My world keeps on turning, even when you’re not there, and it’s _awful_.”

Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hair. “I’m sorry, my dear. I… responsibility…”

Crowley hummed. “Right.” He seemed to steel himself, somewhat. “Come upstairs.”

“Why?”

“Just come. I was going to do this at The Ritz, or maybe at the duck pond, but you know what – bugger it, I’m just going to do it here.”

Aziraphale, mystified, let Crowley take his hand, and drag him up the stairs, into the bedroom, and then leave him a moment to go into his bedside drawer.

“Crowley, what are you –”

“If you can’t guess,” Crowley turned, a little box in his hand, “then I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing, if you can’t look at this and know what I’m going to do.”

Aziraphale stared at the tiny box, and a memory, clear as day, flashed into his mind. A year ago or more. Crowley’s birthday. A tiny box. A confusion.

A question that wasn’t asked.

“Oh, my dear…”

Crowley sagged in relief. “Right. Better do… that thing…” he awkwardly got down on one knee, wobbling slightly as he opened the box.

Aziraphale took a step forward.

The ring inside was a deep yellow gold, no adornments of flashing stones. Just a band of metal. Nothing to have pride over, no vanity, nothing to show off. Just a symbol.

“So, what do you think?” Crowley said, swallowing around the words. “Will you…” he cleared his throat. “Let’s see if I can still do this. _Principality Aziraphale_ ,” he said, trying for the angel’s name and title in their home language, and almost managing it with his human voice, “will you…  marry me?”

Aziraphale knew there would be consequences. He knew there would be repercussions from this that could never be undone.

But he didn’t care.

He stepped forward, a tearing sound cutting through the air as he let his wings burst out through his shirt and coat. He took Crowley by the forearms, and lifted him as though he weighed nothing. Until they were face to face. The angel’s wings surrounded them both, arching like a protective shelter against anything that Earth, Hell or Heaven itself could throw at them.

Aziraphale closed his hands around Crowley’s, and around the box. “Nothing on this earth or above it, would bring me greater happiness, Crowley.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes.”

“Thank heavens for that,” Crowley sighed, closing his eyes as his angel leaned in for a kiss.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a visitor...

Aziraphale knew there would be repercussions. It was simply a matter of waiting for them to show up.

And they did, a few weeks after Crowley’s proposal.

The new year had come and been marked several days ago. The two of them were asleep, when Aziraphale found himself very much awake, and staring at the ceiling. He didn’t bother to wonder what had woken him, simply allowed the feeling of dread and resignation to run through him, before he got up, taking care not to disturb Crowley, who was sleeping on his back, one arm slung over his head, legs apart in an effort to take up as much space as possible.

Aziraphale took a moment to dress, then walked (or stepped, at least – his feet didn’t touch the floor, for fear of creaking floorboards) to the door, and down the steps to the bookshop. There was a lamp on at the sitting room area, and a figure he recognised browsing through one of the publishers’ catalogues.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Gabriel.”

The archangel looked around. “ _Principality Aziraphale_. Congratulations are in order, I believe?”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale flicked his fingers, and a pot of decaf tea and two cups appeared on the coffee table. He didn’t miss Gabriel’s blink of surprise at the casual miracle. But then, he reasoned, how much more trouble could he possibly get into? “Would you like a drink?”

“Not tea,” Gabriel picked up a teacup and it promptly turned into a thick-bottomed glass of something dark amber. “Thank you. I take it… he’s asleep?”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale poured himself a cup of chamomile. “Yes, humans tend to sleep at night. He can’t hear us.”

There was a moment of quiet, as the two angels settled into separate armchairs. The squashy sofa seemed far too familiar for either of them to sit on.

Aziraphale spoke first. “I suppose everyone knows, then?”

“It was brought to my attention,” Gabriel swirled his drink. “I haven’t seen the need to publicise it. I imagine word will get around, however. There are some who have wagers going.”

“Gambling not a sin, now?”

“Ha. But it’s so difficult to police it when it’s painted with hope.”

“Hope?”

“Oh yes.” Gabriel sipped, and put his glass down. “There is a great deal of hope riding on Crowley. The redemption of a demon – of one who defied our Father and Fell – would be cause for much rejoicing. It would reinforce Belief for many, to see one who left us re-join the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I… would also rejoice.”

“Would you.”

“…yes?”

“Even though he would be dead?” Gabriel raised a sculpted eyebrow.

Aziraphale looked into his teacup. “I won’t lie and say I am looking forward to seeing him die, because I am not. But to think he might have his wings back, and sit Above, where he was meant to be… Yes. I would rejoice. The thought comforts me.”

“You plan to marry him.”

“He has asked.”

“And you accepted.”

“Yes.”

Gabriel stared. “Aziraphale… you know what this means.”

“I believe I do.”

“Marriage is not simply a piece of paper for those of us who choose to take part in it,” the archangel said. “It is a joining of hearts and souls. It is permanent, Aziraphale.”

“I know.”

“And when Crowley dies, a bit of you will die, too.”

Aziraphale winced, involuntarily. “It… would not die,” he said. “It would simply be with him.”

“Wherever he was.”

“In Heaven.”

Gabriel glanced at his glass, and picked it up. “You know we cannot guarantee that. He has already sinned. He sins often.”

“Tiny sins. He does a great deal of good, too. He tries, Gabriel. We all know that He loves a trier…” Aziraphale gave a sad smile.

“Yes, He does,” Gabriel said. “However, therein lies the problem.”

“Problem?”

The archangel drained his glass, and put it down carefully before leaning forward. “The problem Crowley has,” he said, “is that he _knows_ there is a Heaven to go to. He does not need to believe, or to have faith, because he knows it to be true. He has been there before. Sat beside Him. He is aware that good deeds and purity of heart will open the gates of Heaven for him.”

Aziraphale frowned.

“And because he knows these things, Crowley is making decisions without doing them for the right reasons.”

“…what do you mean?”

“I mean, he knows good things will get him good places,” Gabriel said. “He does good things _to get into Heaven_ , Aziraphale. And those deeds… do not count on his soul.”

Aziraphale felt his centre of gravity rock, and the floorboards beneath his shoes seemed to move as he processed this information. “So… his sins are sticking,” he said, “but his good deeds… are not?”

“Some are,” Gabriel said. “The things he does without thinking. Helping a lady out of the shop with her perambulator, for instance. He did that with no thought for himself. But so often he thinks _this will count towards my heavenly loyalty card_. And those thoughts do him no credit.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Then… how is he supposed to switch off those thoughts? He – he _knows_ about Heaven. He knows what he thinks are the requirements, he…”

“It isn’t a pass fail system. He is being selfish, you can’t deny it.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale put a hand to his mouth. “He did this for a chance at Heaven. He became mortal… this entire situation is _soaked_ in selfishness!”

“He was reborn with a clean slate,” Gabriel said. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. But my point is, Crowley is not necessarily destined for Heaven. And if he ends up Below, a piece of you goes with him. A piece of you, in Hell, forever. How long do you think you could resist the call?”

“Forever,” Aziraphale snapped. “I have _no_ loyalty to that – that place!”

“But you would feel your love’s agony every second you existed,” Gabriel said. He shook his head. “You would go to him.”

“I…” Aziraphale wanted to deny it. But he couldn’t be sure what his future self might do. The thought of Crowley, his new mortal soul in Hell, being punished for the sins his old and new self had committed… and Hell would remember him. He would be murdered, every second of every day, for desertion, for trying to change sides… and Aziraphale would feel it all.

The archangel looked at him, sadly. “If you marry, that is the risk you take.”

“He won’t fall,” Aziraphale said. “Not again. I can help him.”

“Of course you can,” Gabriel said. “But you can’t live for him. His body is very young. He has decades to live, to make choices… you can guide him, as you will, and as you should. But you cannot make up his mind for him.”

Aziraphale pushed his tea away. “Should I tell him this?”

“I don’t see what harm it can do,” Gabriel said. “He already knows enough secrets.”

“He will be devastated.”

“I imagine he will be. However, if he truly desires to reside in Heaven, he cannot view his life as simply time passing, where his deliberate goodness is an obligation. To truly do good is to do it without expecting reward. In this life or the next.” The archangel spread his wings, then, the shimmering form of all six of them passing through the walls of the bookshop. “You were missed, at Christmas, you know?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. However, you should make a point of visiting before too long. Perhaps inform Him of your decision.”

“He already knows.”

“He would like to see you, Aziraphale.”

“You know His mind, do you?” Aziraphale couldn’t help snapping. Gabriel was an archangel, but still an angel, nonetheless.

“I know that nothing pleases Him more than seeing two beings who love one another choosing to declare it, and to be with one another until death. And even then, there is the promise that you will find one another again, in His Kingdom.” Gabriel smiled. “Your decision is made, and He knows all the secrets of our hearts, but your home is not on Earth, Aziraphale. Crowley is not the only source of love you have.”

Aziraphale touched the ring he wore on his left hand. “I shan’t change my mind.”

“Very well. Then, I look forward to seeing you again soon. Give Crowley my regards. And.. good luck. Both of you.” The archangel gave his wings a beat, and vanished from the sitting room. The glass he had miracled into existence still sat on the coffee table.

Aziraphale didn’t bother clearing the tea things away. He went into the front room, and sat down at the desk, feeling distinctly out of sorts. Normally, when he felt like this, he would go to Heaven, and allow the soothing nature of the place to guide him in his decisions. But he couldn’t go there like this.

He put his hands together.

“Lord,” he whispered, “grant me the strength to help Crowley help others, and himself. Please. Please, help me to help him. I…” his voice cracked, “I am sorry, Lord. I have not chosen him over You. I love… Please, help me. Help Crowley. Give him what he needs. Give him the strength to cope with what shall come. I beg…”

 


End file.
